


Until the End

by CiaraK_1996



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Loss, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:48:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiaraK_1996/pseuds/CiaraK_1996
Summary: What if the Apocalypse was never stopped?This is inspired by the opening two parts of this fanart - https://momoe-mi.tumblr.com/post/187362148760/first-page-of-a-little-comic-im-making-hohoho-i(I tagged Major Character Death, but I swear this has a happy, fluffy ending!!)





	Until the End

Aziraphale was staring at the globe while Camael was screaming at him. Powers were like that, they thought very little of Principalities and lower angel classes, they cared for nothing other than fighting to maintain heavenly order. Of all the angels in heaven he knew that those in the Order of Powers were looking forward to this war most of all. Aziraphale felt sick and reached out to the globe only to be dragged away from it by the other soldiers and something surged through his celestial being, rendering him somehow unconscious.

He woke up to find himself strapped to a chair facing Uriel and Sandalphon, both of whom were smiling callously. _It’s over then_, he thought bitterly, _the Earth is doomed_. He wondered if he would every see Crowley again. If they would survive the war to come. If Crowley had left him. If Aziraphale would ever make it to Alpha Centauri.

“Do you know the punishment for desertion?” Gabriel said suddenly, appearing in Aziraphale’s line of sight, “They are banished. Not to Hell, but to Earth. Mortal. However, given the world is about to end, that is now a death sentence.”

“What about his treason?” Uriel sneered.

“Ah yes,” Gabriel squinted at the captive angel, his mouth almost smiling in a thin sarcastic line, Aziraphale felt like a child being scolded for being found in the cookie jar again, “We have proof that you have bee fraternizing with the Demon Crawley.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale corrected.

Gabriel bared his teeth and sneered, “_Crowley_, then. You do not deny these allegations?”

“Well if you have proof, who am I to disagree with the divine?” Aziraphale replied calmly, with any luck Crowley was halfway to Alpha Centauri and out of Heaven’s reach.

Gabriel looked at him questioningly, trying to deduce the truth, then he straightened and spoke with a surprisingly light-hearted tone, “Indeed! The evidence has been assessed by ourselves, and the Virtues, and we have found it deeply disturbing. We have sent this evidence to the Seraphim to determine your fate.”

“I can assure you,” Uriel stated flatly, “Once they see that you have been consorting with a demon since 1601, justice will be swift.”

It took all of Aziraphale’s strength to stop himself laughing at them. _1601_, he thought to himself, _they think we have been consorting for only four hundred years?_ _1601 was nearly five hundred years after they arrangement, for Heaven’s sake_! He wanted to laugh and proudly inform them that they had met on the ninth day of Earth shortly after he helped Adam and Eve escape God’s wrath. But he held his tongue and remained calm, he had to be brave for Crowley. Crowley would be able to play it off as him attempting to corrupt an angel and once Aziraphale was brought before a jury he could claim he had attempted to redeem a demon, but he had to remain calm.

“I am so looking forward to it,” Sandalphon sneered.

Gabriel looked a little uncomfortable, “You have betrayed us, Aziraphale, but your trial will have to wait. We are at war and the Dominions have decided we need _every_ soldier.”

Aziraphale frowned, “You would have an accused traitor on the battlefield?”

“Accused or not,” Michael said softly, walking up behind him, “You’re an angel, and your orders are still in you mind. All we have to do is reinforce them.”

_No_, Aziraphale thought, his stomach dropped. Reconditioning was painful and very horrific; they would tear into a renegade angel’s celestial being and reprogram it, forcing it to obey Heaven once more. They had tried this during the First War, back when it was a small rebellion; but the practice was new and not yet perfect, some angels went mad or died in the process and that inspired more to rebel, in the end, there were too many of them to operate on and they were all banished to Hell. Since then there were a few angels who stepped out of line and they were _corrected_, eventually, stern notes were enough to terrify an angel into obeying, fearing the reconditioning procedure. Aziraphale needed to remain calm, with any luck they would just condition him to accept orders and not remove his beloved memories; after all, his testimony would be needed for his trial. He could lie, he had lied to God herself and never been found out, he had lied to Crowley despite the pain, lying to the archangels would be easy in comparison. “I understand, it’s all for the greater good.”

“Hey! There’s our angel!” Gabriel grinned, “You know, I’m sure the Seraphim Council will be lenient if you prove yourself in the war to come.”

Aziraphale forced a smile and braced himself for his fate.

* * *

Crowley was drinking in a bar. Three empty bottles of whiskey and chugging down a fourth.

“You might want to slow down, mate,” The barman said again, though he never denied Crowley his next drink. He knew the demon well, though he did not really believe he was a demon, but he liked the redhead who always wore sunglasses; he protected his customers, broke up fights, and tipped very generously.

“Meh!” Crowley shouted, swaying in his chair, “I don’t care! If I die by booze then… then I _win_, right?”

“I get it mate,” The barman said sitting down opposite, “You’ve had a rough day, but it’s not the end of the world.”

Crowley laughed, “Oh, but it is! That’sss the problem! My boss wants me dead and the world isss def-definitely coming to an end.”

The barman frowned, “You hate your work, though. You’ve told me enough times. _That_ is not why you’re drinking yourself to death.”

Crowley whimpered, “They killed my angel.”

“Oh,” The barman gasped, silence fell over the small pub as the other regulars gasped in horror, “Oh, mate, I’m so sorry.”

“Who’s your boss?” A big rough man in the corner asked, smashing a glass against a wall to help make his point, “I’ll kill ‘em for you.”

There was a murmur of agreement and Crowley froze, how long had he been coming here to gain this sort of support? The world was literally coming to an end outside and these effective strangers were offering _him _comfort. He vaguely wondered as to what they thought he did for a living; mafia perhaps.

“They…” The barman began softly, “They really _killed_ him?”

Crowley stared at him blankly, sure he thought of Aziraphale while drinking, he thought of him sober too, but he hadn’t realised he’d _talked_. Slowly he realised he didn’t have to lie, he was no longer scared of what Hell would do to him, what Hell would do to Aziraphale. They had already done it. He nodded.

“Then I won’t stop you,” He said in surrender, “But would he want you doing this?”

Crowley looked up at the man, he was late middle-ages, grey hair, and a solemn presence. He wore smart, dark grey trousers, a pale grey shirt, and a striped tie. He looked like he could have worked in half the offices in London rather than working behind a bar. Crowley looked into his grey eyes and considered his words carefully.

“He-he’d have wanted me to stop it…” His voice broke as the tears fell from his eyes and his words stuck in his throat, “He’d… want me to stop the apocalypse.”

The barman gave him a weak smile, pretending to understand what the demon was talking about, “Then stop it.”

“Why?!” The demon cried, his voice higher than he would have liked, “What’s the point? He’s… why save the world if he’s not in it?”

“Because that’s what he’d have wanted,” The barman said slowly, he stood and walked back towards to bar.

“So how do we stop it?” An old hag croaked from another table.

Crowley turned around to find the whole pub was watching him, listening to him, “Uh, I… um. I need to find the Antichrist.”

“Do you know where he is?” Another man blurted, swaying slightly in his chair. A bolt of lightning struck the pavement outside with such violence that a young woman squeaked and fell off her stool at the bar, without really thinking, Crowley snapped his fingers and she narrowly escaped harm. He took the book from his lap, the burnt pages reminded him awfully of the fire in Alexandria. A few pieces of paper fell out, “Tadfield.”

He jumped into his Bentley and glared at the drunken humans waving at him and wishing him luck.

“You’re well over the limit, mate,” The barman said, forcing the car door open in an attempt to stop Crowley driving away.

“The world is ending,” Crowley said seriously, truthfully he had sobered up moments ago, but human biology didn’t work like that, “Besides,” he added, “I’m a demon.”

He pulled down his sunglasses enough to wink at the barman with one yellow snake-eye before pushing them back to the bridge of his nose. The barman froze and loosened his grip on the door allowing him to pull it shut. The engine ignited on its own, but before he could drive away the old crone was standing in front of the Bentley looking terrified.

“It’s too late, love!” She gasped, pointing at the woman he had saved from a nasty concussion. She held out her smartphone, showing a road aflame.

_No, not a road_, Crowley frowned.

_‘What you did to the M25 was a stroke of demonic genius, darling.’_

“Fuck!” Crowley hissed, he angrily got out of the car and began pacing, pulling out chunks of his red hair, “Fuuuuuuuck!”

“Do you kiss your angel with that mouth?” A voice sneered from behind him. Crowley didn’t recognise the voice. He just registered _‘demon’_ and threw the closest thing to hand. Which happened to be a park bench beside the bus stop he was parked in, which had been bolted to the pavement. The demon discorporated instantly, but he knew that meant he would just report straight back to Beelzebub and as soon as it got a new body signed out it would be coming for needless vengeance.

The humans were staring, but he didn’t care. The sooner they realised they were all fucked, the better. Then they would be able to make their last moments count. Unlike Crowley. He knew what was going to happen; that lesser demon had been a scout, a simple ‘come quietly’, and unlike Hastur, Crowley had just sent the scout straight back to Hell to inform them what he had done. Soon there would be a mob of them. If he was lucky, the war would start before Beelzebub could send a small platoon.

“Demon,” The barman nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “End of the World. Right. What can we do?”

“Do?” Crowley hissed.

“Should we put paper bags over our heads?” One old drunkard suggested.

“Pray?” Someone else piped up, Crowley grimaced.

“How do you kill an angel?” Some asked helpfully.

Crowley rubbed his sore head, not sure if it was his raw scalp or the headache that was causing him more pain, “Um… that was a demon. But he’s not dead, just sent back.”

“How do’ya kill a demon then?” The crown croaked.

“Holy Water,” Crowley answered, still rather confused, “Hell Fire for angels.”

“There’s a church around the corner,” Someone said helpfully and began stumbling off in the wrong direction, Crowley remembered when it had been built after the old church was bombed, miraculously only killing Nazi spies.

“How d’we get ‘ell Fire then?” The woman with the smartphone slurred.

“Why do you all want to know?” Crowley asked, utterly perplexed.

“If the world’s ending,” The barman said, slapping the demon and the shoulder, “We’re going down figh’ing.”

Crowley stood there, watching as this rabble of intoxicated humans began making weapons out of broken bottles, and running off to fill empty bottles with Holy Water, and scream at anyone they saw that the world was ending. Everyone thought they were mad of course, but something about this last hopeful effort gave Crowley some strange form of comfort.

* * *

Aziraphale was flying above a small rectangle of grey which was surrounded by green. _The airbase_, he thought before realising he had thought it. His head throbbed, but the pain and delirium were fading fast. Before long there were blinding lights on the horizon and the angel could feel the raw power of the atom destroying and burning everything, it touched.

_My home_, he thought remorsefully, he vaguely remembered dust and rough dry paper, the warmth of candles, the weight of a book, a friend. Tears formed in his eyes at the ghost of a memory he could not quite see. At least his memories were coming back, but his free will was taking a little longer to break free. He could almost remember smiling, lying, saying he obeyed when he wanted nothing more than to run away. He had lied so they would not work so harm on his mind, he realised. _Not enough to save me entirely,_ he thought bitterly, chasing his thoughts like… whatever chases its own tail.

Beneath them he saw a group of young children fighting off the Horsemen, and they were winning. Beelzebub and Gabriel accosted a young boy and the enemy erupt from the ground to scold his rebellious child into submission. Aziraphale felt hopeless and watched as Death took the boy aside and his friends followed meekly. There was a witch and a man too, but they surrendered into each other’s embrace as the end came and the host of Heaven descended. Aziraphale raised his sword, for some reason he preferred the sword to the rifled musket he had been given, though the sword was not right. He landed where the humans had been standing moments before, feeling as though he should do something. The hellhound was staring at him.

_Dogs! That’s what chases its own tail!_

Aziraphale looked at the dog curiously, chasing a memory tugging at his mind.

_The hellhound will be the key_, a voice whispered in his ear and suddenly he was in a park looking at a different boy and thinking he was the Antichrist. Why did he think that? Who was sat next to him?

Aziraphale tried to formulate his thoughts, but they slipped through his fingers like holy water.

_That’s not what I want it for_, the voice hissed, _just insurance._

Those words hurt, but Aziraphale could not quite bring himself to remember why. He watched the dog run off to its master, a young boy holding Death’s skeletal hand, his eyes glowing red.

He shifted the sword in his hand; the weight, the balance, it was all wrong. He looked at the sword War was holding, she was slashing dramatically rather than skillfully.

_Didn’t you have a flaming sword?_ The voice asked, almost teasing, _you did, it was flaming like anything_.

“What happened to it?” Aziraphale whispered, he was staring at the redhead. She was all wrong, but the memory was so close he could almost taste the rain.

_Lost it already?_ The voice mocked him.

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale gasped, he could see him. Black robes, long blood-red locks, bright wide yellow snake eyes, and an admiring smile.

_Crowley_, Aziraphale snapped out of his trance. His head was clearer, and he began looking around frantically, “CROWLEY!”

* * *

Crowley was sulking. He was usually sulking when Hell made him do something. Somehow Azazel had missed the memo where Crowley was named a traitor was to be thrown into the deepest pit until the war was over. Instead, Azazel had dragged Crowley down, forced him into antique military garb and armed him with a dagger, a pistol, and a rifled musket (because that was what the angels were using, and Hell would be damned if was going to be outgunned by Heaven). Crowley grumbled but played along, maybe he’d get a shot at Gabriel, maybe even steal an angel’s weapon and take down his annoying co-workers. For a moment he wondered if he could change all their weapons into paintball guns and smiled, but the sweet memory of Aziraphale broke his heart.

He forced himself to think of something else, anything else. His mind wandered back to the humans from the pub, they had managed to kill three demons and discorporate a few more. Crowley told them to run, but few listened. It was not until the demons were coming for him in larger numbers, tearing through anyone in their path that Crowley decided to drop his defences and miracle them to the other side of the city. He could not get them out of the infernal trap that was the M25, nor would it save them for long, but it was better than them dying for the likes of him. Now he was in a muddy field, being awfully reminded of the First World War. _The War to End All Wars_, they had called it, but they were a hundred years too early. Crowley had encouraged troops to desert their posts while Aziraphale worked miracles behind enemy lines. Technically Crowley was supposed to be helping War by sending in more weapons to her, but fewer soldiers seemed a better use of resources.

Azazel raised a fist and they all halted. Crowley sighed and waited; all he could hear were some rabbits in the bushes. Then he heard it, the cries of war. He hated that sound. Azazel signalled them to press on and he primed his weapon as they approached the conflict. _Please be Gabriel, please be Gabriel, please be Gabriel…_

He stopped and looked at the other demons for a moment through his dark sunglasses. If Aziraphale appeared, he could easily take down two before a shot was fired, another three if Aziraphale ran for cover. It was not Aziraphale though and Crowley failed to shoot because he was laughing too hard. The other demons frowned and continued advancing while the Snake of Eden howled with laughter. He almost calmed when he thought of his angel wearing a kilt and laughed even harder until there were tears in his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” He gasped, forcing himself to breath and calm himself, “I need to find my angel.”

He had decided it was better to believe that Aziraphale had been summoned to Heaven rather than having been killed but infernal fire. If Aziraphale had chosen Heaven over him then Aziraphale could bloody well put him out of his misery. The more he thought of Aziraphale having left him was more than he could bear, he believed the angel when he said he was trying to fix things and joining Heaven did not come into that equation. But his thoughts kept returning to those kilts and he was laughing again by the time he caught up with the troops.

* * *

The best part of using a sword, in Aziraphale’s humble opinion, was that you couldn’t accidentally kill someone. He saw Muriel attempt to shoot a demon, only to miss and discorporate Jophiel; when Aziraphale forced himself to defend himself from attack, at least he knew who he was hitting. It was strange how their weapons worked, the blades were blessed or damned, which had always been the way, but the bullets were new. They discorporated comrades but killed enemies, and yet despite being holy of damned, the bodies were not destroyed instantly unlike Hell Fire or Holy Water. The body would fall to the ground and slowly fade into nothing.

He watched the demon he had slain fade; before today he could count the lives, he had accidentally taken on one hand, and all of them were brought back of course. He had indulged in meats and fish too, but he always insisted on free-range and always gave back the lives he consumed so the number of creatures on the planet were never affected by his presence. Crowley had mocked him for that once, but then Crowley barely ever ate anything. Now he had taken four lives, the ancient lives of four demons who had seen the earth created.

It was sad really, he looked around at the angels and the demons slaughtering each other. Over what? Just to see who was right? Mothers were supposed to raise their children, praise them when they were good and scold them when they were bad. He looked at the other angels, and Aziraphale saw no good in them; they were having fun. He looked at the demons; half of them were terrified, simply rebellious and forced into a fight for survival. Warlock had been rebellious, and Crowley had told him off when he was bad (even though Crowley was really supposed to encourage bad behaviour) and praised the boy when he was good (ish). Crowley had sat the boy down and talked to him, protected him, cared for him. Where was God? Why was she not being the Mother she was supposed to be? She was supposed to love _all _her children, how could she simply watch them slaughter each other?

A shot was fired and whistled a little too close to Aziraphale’s head. He pulled himself out of his thoughts and took cover. The demon approached but was set upon by Nuriel who fire shot after shot like one of her hailstorms. Aziraphale composed himself and ripped off his helmet, gazing at the long scorch mark along the left-hand side where the shot had narrowly missed. He shuddered and stood, searching the battlefield; he needed a quiet and obscured corned to travel to Alpha Centauri, to find Crowley. He searched with his soul through the chaos, but he sensed something he wished he hadn’t; Crowley.

He dropped his helmet and ran, sword raised.

It didn’t take him long to spot the red-headed demon in the battlefield. He was ragged and dirty, his brow furrowed and slick with sweat. He was hearing a formal dress military uniform, in a style more suited to the early 20th century rather than the early 21st, and was wearing his sunglasses as always. The uniform was grey and black with silver detail, Aziraphale almost envied his trousers, feeling awfully exposed in his kilt. Crowley had a pistol which he raised expertly at an angel, but he hesitated and took cover instead. He stepped out again, clearly looking for something and only raising his gun when spotted by an angel, then he would wait to see who would fire first. Half the time the distracted angel would be attacked by another demon and Crowley would hold his fire and continue his search, other times Crowley would wound the angel and run off out of the wounded angel’s line of sight.

Aziraphale was not the most agile of angels, nor the most fit, but he ran. He ran faster than he had ever run before; fast than when Rome fell, faster than when Alexandria burned, faster than when he was caught unawares in the rain.

“Crowley!” He screamed, dropping his sword.

The demon’s head lifted suddenly, twisting round in new-found haste until his eyes fell on the Principality. Aziraphale could see his sigh of relief, “Angel!”

Crowley raised a hand beckoning the angel to him, “Angel, come on!”

Aziraphale ran. Crowley lifted his pistol and discorporated a couple of demons who had turned around towards their cries, “Angel, come on let’s go!”

Aziraphale was so close, he pushed himself and then the sound of the shot reverberated through him and he stumbled. His body was whole, but he felt the wound. He stumbled forward and clutched the demon tightly, “Crowley? Crowley!”

“A-angel,” he gasped, his legs failed him and Aziraphale fell to the ground, unable to support his own weight as well as Crowley’s.

“Crowley, I-I’m so sorry!” He sobbed, clutching at the blood-stained military coat, begging the universe that he could save him, “I should have gone with you. I-I never meant what I said at the b-bandstand. I… I can’t lose you!”

Crowley gulped and smiled, “I’m sorry too, angel.”

“I-I…” Aziraphale choked, pulling away the demon’s infernal glasses, wanting desperately to see him, “I love you.”

But he was gone. And Aziraphale sobbed and screamed.

He did not see who fired the shot, nor did he particularly care. He wanted it to be over, but for some reason, no one seemed to see him. He cradled the demon in his arms, rocking gently to comfort him. Some numb and naïve part of him hoped the shot was fired by a demon, that he was simply discorporated. But his hopes died quickly as he felt the body begin to fade in his arms. Aziraphale cried out wordlessly clutching at the demon wildly.

“No… No!” He cried, feeling the weight lessen in his arms, it would be moments before the sight of him failed too. Aziraphale desperately tried to memorize his face, as if he had never seen it before… as if he would never see it again. He was counting freckles for kisses that he owed when the corporeal body began to become translucent, “Nonononono… I’m losing count, my dear. Stay, please.”

He sobbed as the body fell like smoke from his arms. An eternity, a moment. Suddenly he was alone.

“Aziraphale,” The voice was nasal, spiteful. Aziraphale raised his rifle at Sandalphon and then had a better idea. He lifted the pistol Crowley hand dropped and shot the angel between the eyes with expert precision.

“What did you do?” Gabriel gasped, he was wearing a similar uniform, only pale grey rather than beige.

Aziraphale raised the gun with surprising calm and clarity, “I love him.”

Gabriel grimaced with some invisible paid, and then sneered, “I think you mean _‘loved’_.”

Aziraphale was aware of tears falling from his eyes, but could feel nothing but hollow emptiness, “No, he may be… he may be… _gone_, but that does not make me love him any less.”

Gabriel seemed to struggle with some internal conflict before he approached the renegade angel, “He was a _demon_. Demons don’t love, he didn’t love you. He didn’t deserve you.”

Aziraphale could not focus, his mind somehow a whirlwind or thoughts and yet utterly void of thought at the same time, aware of thoughts but not enough to read them. Something in his unfortunate programming broke, a form a failsafe in a way, something that demanded orders, “Who should I love?”

Gabriel knelt before him, cupping his cheek in an attempt to focus his gaze, “You should love me. I already love you.”

Aziraphale frowned, and shook his head, “No, I don’t think so.”

Gabriel hardened, his jaw clenched and his grip on his weapon tightened, “I said I love you.”

“And I heard you,” Aziraphale said softly, he forced himself to meet Gabriel’s gaze, “But a declaration does not always grant you reciprocation. I don’t love you. I love Crowley.”

“Crawley is dead,” Gabriel seethed, anger bubbling up inside him, “Stop acting like a fool and fall in line.”

Aziraphale glanced at the gun in his hand, he didn’t approve of guns personally, there was something too easy about the way they could take life. He smiled, “Oh, Gabriel. Thank you.”

For a moment Gabriel smiled happily, but the smile died as the Principality raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Aziraphale woke surrounded by light, not the brilliant light of heaven, but the warm glow of dawn, or perhaps a sunset. He lifted his head, only to find there was no ground nor sky, simply a soft orange and pink glow. He sighed and let the light sink into his skin, his bones, his soul. There was something comforting and yet something missing. There was a name on his lips.

“Aziraphale.” A woman said sternly.

Aziraphale answered in a language he had not used in over six thousand years, a language for angels. He had never used it after Eden, even when in Heaven. The language felt foreign on his lips.

A woman appeared before him, dressed in pure white that glowed in the dawn, “Aziraphale. You were once a Cherub and after failing in Eden you were demoted to Principality.”

These were not questions, and Aziraphale remained silent.

“Yet you continue to disobey,” God shook her head, her short silver hair reflecting the orange glow perfectly, “And now suicide. My child, what have you done?”

That was a question and Aziraphale answered her, “I could not be without him.”

“Without whom?” For a moment God almost seemed to care.

“Crowley,” Even saying his name forced a smile from his lips, “I’m afraid I don’t know the name you originally gaze him. He would not speak of it.”

God frowned, “Crowley? The snake?”

Aziraphale felt his smile broaden, but his soul hurt. How could she not know?

“My child, why destroy yourself for a demon?” God asked, innocently perplexed, “For a monster?”

Aziraphale felt his soul shudder, felt his spine tighten, and his molten grief solidifying into rage, “He is not a monster. He is kind, generous, loving, thoughtful, and brave. He did not deserve to fall from grace. And now you mock me for falling in love with him? The angels never cared about me. They forgot about me! Crowley was always there. Always! And… I can’t be without him.”

Aziraphale would have been in tears if he were not so hurt and angry. God looked at him like a confused child and then smiled, “I know. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to figure it out.”

Aziraphale stopped, “W-what?”

If she had not been glowing before, she certainly was now, “Oh my darling Aziraphale, I’ve been waiting thousands of years for you two to figure it out. You’ve both loved each other for so long, I feared neither of you would make a move. Crowley tried, bless him, but he feared pushing you away. And you’ve known his affections since the 1940s, but never acted on them through fear of Heaven.”

She clasped his hands and stepped a little closer, “My dear Aziraphale, I am so proud of you and I wish you all the happiness in the universe.”

God placed a kiss on his cheek and suddenly he was falling, or possibly rising; being dragged backwards through the turn of the universe.

His eyes fluttered open to see clear blue skies above him. He sighed as he lay in the grass, a hand reaching out and finding another hand.

“Am I dead?” A familiar voice sighed, Aziraphale’s heart jumped a beat and he spun towards the source of the sound, grasping at Crowley desperately and pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Don’t do that to me again!” He sobbed against the demon’s chest.

“Do what?” Crowley sighed, Aziraphale could almost feel his eyes rolling, “I’m pretty sure you died first.”

“I was discorporated!” Aziraphale insisted, feeling tear flowing freely from his eyes, “You… you _died_.”

He looked up at the demon who was almost crying, barely holding his cool composure as the angel broke down. Crowley shifted onto his side to face him better, “You were saying something.”

“When?”

“While I was dying,” Crowley clarified calmly, “I thought you were saying something.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, unafraid and unashamed, “I said I love you.”

Crowley stopped; stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped his heart beating.

“W-what?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, inching closer to him, “I love you.”

Aziraphale leaned up and kissed him chastely, pulled away and smiled at the light blush blooming in the demon’s cheeks as he allowed his heart to beat once more, and then leaned in to kiss him again.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, pulling away despite his every instinct, “Angel, I thought…”

“I was afraid,” Aziraphale whispered, “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of Heaven, or Hell, or Falling. The only thing I fear is losing you.”

Crowley gave a pained moan, “I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips against Crowley’s again, “I know.”

“Disgusting.” A voice groaned.

Aziraphale and Crowley moaned in unison as they pulled away to face their intruders, Aziraphale pulled himself into w sitting position as he glared up at Uriel, Gabriel, and Michael. He felt cold and angry seeing them mocking him, but the warmth of Crowley’s arms snaking around his waist, clearly the demon did not want to let him go either.

“What do you lot want?” Aziraphale asked indignantly.

He watched Gabriel’s jaw clench and relax as he worried his teeth, “The war is over.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley tense and look up, Aziraphale leaned into his touch as an unspoken form of comfort, “Oh?”

Michael bristled, “The storms stopped, the nuclear attacks halted, and the world is being restored to the state it was.”

“Even the antichrist has gone home with his friends,” Uriel added with disdain.

“None of the dead have returned though,” Gabriel added with a forced artificial smile, “No one but you.”

Gabriel looked almost happy, if not for the sight of the demon who was holding the angel tightly.

Aziraphale glanced at the demon, “God. God brought us back.”

Michael was laughing, “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

“Do not be so fast to judge, Michael,” A woman said sternly, “I did not make you to pass judgement on that which you do not understand.”

God walked past the archangels and knelt before the fallen angel and ascended demon, “I will return the world to the way it was,” She said slowly producing two feathers; one black and one white, “But Heaven and Hell will not be the only influences over this plane of existence,” She took a piece of her hair and began binding the feathers together, “I charge you both to maintain the balance of the universe, as you have always done. Neither good nor bad, but utterly free,” She handed them the bound feathers and watched them blur into a medium grey and smiled, “Neither Heaven nor Hell can harm you now.”

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale tightened and Aziraphale leaned into it, welcoming his comfort and hoping to ease his fear. Demons had good reason to fear God.

The Almighty was looking at them expectantly, and Aziraphale scrambled for some words, “We will do our best.”

She smiled warmly, “I know you will.”

She vanished, and within moments so did the other angels. Before long, all signs of conflict had been removed entirely.

“Did…” Crowley murmured quietly, “Did we just get married?”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered in his chest and his face warmed, “You know, I do believe we did. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Crowley whispered, placing kisses along Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck, “Do you?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment and admired the feathers in his hands, “I think we should get married in a human way, just to be sure it’s done properly.”

He returned Crowley’s kisses and the demon laughed, “Was God not enough?”

“Felt a little rushed,” Aziraphale sighed, “I want to swear my eternal love and devotion. Preferably with better witnesses.”

“I love you, angel,” Crowley sighed, finally allowing his love to overwhelm him. Aziraphale tingled with the waves of compassion, devotion, pure love radiating from the demon’s skin.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale sighed, placing his lips against Crowley’s. Vowing to himself to never lie or hide his feelings from himself or him beloved again.


End file.
